


So Dose Me Up

by sweetheartdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dean tops but Sam's the one in control btw, Drug Addict Sam, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Handcuffs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Riding, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 11:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4434227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetheartdean/pseuds/sweetheartdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-hunters!AU. Sam's an addict who copes with life through the needle and pill and hustles for the dose, Dean's a cop working vice who had zero idea about his estranged brother's extracurricular activities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Dose Me Up

Dean’s life story ain’t anything special when you put it in dry facts.

Born in Lawrence, Kansas. Mother dead in a fire when he was four. Distraught father, who had a hard time coping with grief, always busy working his ass off to keep a roof over their heads. A younger brother he took care of until he was all grown up and didn’t need him anymore. 

These facts don’t include the way Sammy held onto his hand tightly when Dean walked him to school down a street where big oak trees grew. Don’t include the way Sam’s face lit up when Dean cracked open a comic for some good old-fashioned bedtime reading. Didn’t say anything about the way Sam placed his hand wordlessly on Dean’s shoulder after a rough day in the academy.

But it’s been a couple years since Dean saw Sam last, and that meant that there was nothing left but a bunch of these dry facts, scattered memories and a small stack of family photos of the times when things still made sense. 

Wasn’t like Dean’s gonna have a sharing and caring session with anyone soon, anyway. His colleagues in vice are mostly good people, but they don’t talk much about lives outside of their job, don’t hang out after hours. The job’s bad enough for people to not want to mix it with their daily routine. 

Back in the day, Dean still had a bit of the bright-eyed enthusiasm for the job. Changing the world for the better, one rehabilitated whore at a time! As it turned out, it wasn’t that easy. Luckier ones get a slap on the wrist and are back in business as soon as the police weren’t looking, the less lucky do their time and, after getting out, mostly walk the streets again. The system, apparently, isn’t doing them much good, either — nowhere to go after prison and no money to tide them by until they can manage to get an honest living.

Dean’s a small cog in a broken mechanism, and it’s every bit as frustrating as it sounds. His partner, officer Charlie Bradbury, fights for all kinds of change in the world — she makes petitions and walks in demonstrations, politically vocal and active and taking a stand. She asks Dean to go with her sometimes. 

Charlie’s kinda sorta his closest friend, apart from his drinking buddy, a trucker named Benny who has the wildest stories to tell every time they meet up (Dean doubts even half of those are true, but truth doesn’t matter when there’s entertainment to be had). That’s why Dean doesn’t ever turn her down outright, instead talking of a rain check. 

Truth be told, ever since Sam’s high-tailed it to his fancy-ass college, and John kicked the bucket, Dean’s been having a hard time hitting it off with people. It seems useless, chatting someone up when he knows nothing and no one waits for him back in his empty apartment. And, yeah, he picks a chick up once in a while, but they always leave come morning. Which, to be honest, is a good thing. Ain’t like Dean’s anywhere near ready for a stable relationship. The one time he tried, it ended pretty bitterly, with her throwing all the stuff in a bag and slamming the door, ‘cause he didn’t pay her enough attention. Probably true. 

Married to his job it is, then.

The plainclothes gig ain’t his favourite, but it allows him to have both feet in the seedy underbelly of the city — he ended up in San Francisco after being bounced from a department to a department for a bit. The city has its fair share of shady parts, and, trading his uniform for a plaid shirt and jeans, he fits right in.

Sometimes Charlie joins him, hamming it up with hanging off his arm and acting drunk. Like LARPing, she says, only for real. Good way to stretch your acting muscles. Not today, though, she’s stuck doing paperwork, while Dean’s out in the field. 

It’s a good hour before Dean sees something that looks sure as fuck dodgy. 

They don’t even bother hiding. A middle-aged balding man in a parked car moans in a way that means he’s having a lot of fun. Guess what, there’s indeed a shaggy-haired young thing standing on their knees inside the car, sucking the guy off. For all the moaning the man did, you’d think he was receiving the blowjob of the century, but as far as Dean could see, the giver wasn’t even all that into it. 

Dean knocks at the roof and brandishes his police badge. 

“Police, step out of the car,” he says in a somewhat tired voice. This is so not what he imagined himself doing while he was studying in the police academy, but, hey, life goes on. “Both of you.”

The guy all but falls out of the car, alternating between excuses and _do-you-know-who-I-am_ and _you don’t know, he might be my boyfriend_ as he tucks in. Dean doesn’t care. His main beef isn’t with that dude, gross as he might be. His eyes are trained on the figure still hunched in the car. The guy’s visibly shaking. Probably a junkie.

“Hey! Up and at ‘em,” Dean calls out, slapping the car once more for good measure, and the guy moves forwards reluctantly, squinting at the bright light. 

He’s tall, pale, and so thin it seems that he might break just from a sharp movement. As he crawls outside, swiping his mouth, Dean realises the guy looks all too familiar, maybe he booked him before, but, no, he can’t remember that happening, and then Dean takes a step back, because, of course he knows who that is. 

“Sam?” Dean breathes out.

Sam smiles. He fucking smiles and he meets Dean’s eyes lazily with his own, a string of saliva still dangling out of the corner of his mouth. With a twist in his stomach, Dean thinks that Sam’s under some residual high. The track marks on his arms and the general drowsy look he wears definitely speak for this theory. 

“Hi, Dean,” he looks down slightly guiltily, like he used to when Dean caught him stealing candy when he was a kid. This time, though, he ain’t getting off with a simple “sorry, De, I won’t ever do it again”. 

Dean’s gonna hurl if he starts speaking. He grabs the car’s side to stay upright and pulls in a sharp breath, glancing down at the pattern of crispy leaves beneath his feet. This wasn’t some messed-up dream. Way too real.

“What the fuck?” Dean finally gets out, which, while not too eloquent, really gets his point across. “I thought you were going to college!”

“I did,” Sam nods, scrunching his forehead in thought. “But it didn’t work out. I’m sorry.”

“Were you two, like, lovers?” Sam’s client pipes up in a tone that suggests that he’s really into soap operas and enjoys seeing this unfold. “My god, how dramatic. He does sound sorry, though.” 

“Shut the hell up,” Dean snaps, giving him a dark glare. “Listen here, cowboy — you’re gonna thank your lucky stars, get in the car and go home. And don’t ever screw a prostitute again, ‘cause next time, I ain’t gonna let you off the hook.” 

The guy mutters some hushed apologies as he slides into the car and hastily drives off, obviously worried about Dean changing his mind. Dean turns back to Sam and pulls his handcuffs out. He doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? He can’t let Sam go just because he’s Sam. He wouldn’t cut anyone else slack in this situation.

“Turn around,” Dean says in a flat voice, and Sam shakes his head.

“Dean. No, please—” 

“Turn around,” Dean repeats, and Sam reluctantly obliges. Pressing Sam against a car and slapping handcuffs around his bony wrists is nowhere as satisfactory as an arrest usually is. Dean jerks Sam’s rolled-up sleeves down so that he wouldn’t have to see the marks covering his arms. As if getting them out of sight was gonna miraculously make them disappear.

Dean knows better than to believe in miracles by this point.

Thankfully, Dean’s car’s close enough. He shoves Sam into the backseat and grasps the wheel tightly, letting out a shuddering breath. Dean can see Sam in the rearview mirror, and he looks fucking rough. Hollow cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, tangled hair, the whole trifecta.

Dean has no idea what happened. He isn’t sure if he wants to know, either. All that he knows is that he fucked up big time when he let Sam leave their apartment. Sure, Sam’s to be blamed here, too, but, hell, Dean took care of him his whole life. No wonder he fell flat on his face when Dean wasn’t there to hold his hand.

Dean clenches his jaw before waving his hands in frustration. If there was a wall nearby, he’d definitely punch it, but he isn’t so far gone to punch anything in the car. Cars are to be treated with respect, dammit.

“I went to Stanford,” Sam starts in a pleading voice. Seems like he’s not all that high anymore, which makes it a little easier to look at him. “And it all was working out until...” he swallows thickly, “until my girlfriend died. A house fire. I was gone five minutes, and when I came back, there was nothing. Just ash and dust and-- nothing.”

Dean nods, because he has no idea what to say. “My condolences” seems outright mocking. It seems that Sam doesn’t really need an answer, because he trucks on in that scared voice of his.

“I’ve been having nightmares for a while after. Really bad ones. Left me in cold sweat every night. So... I met another girl soon afterwards. Her name was Ruby, and she was the one who suggested I try something to help with the pain, y’know?”

“Yeah. You aren’t the first one to be telling me your sob story while cowering in the backseat. The only difference is that you haven’t offered to blow me yet,” Dean said, his fingers clutching in a fist. “Sam, I’m sorry your girl died and it messed with your head. That’s a rough deal. But you didn’t have to stoop to this. To become a wh—”

“Don’t say it.”

“A whore,” Dean finishes in a steely voice. “I put my life to fighting this shit, and you’ve actually decided to be the very thing I—”

“You didn’t pick up.”

Dean freezes in place, then stares into the window. It’s drizzling, and the branches of the huge oak tree growing nearby are rattling with wind.

“You didn’t pick up, even though I called and called. I had nothing and no one, so don’t you dare blame me for what I did to cope.” 

“I’ll fucking blame you for whatever I want to,” Dean all but snarls the words out and starts up the car. Truth is, it is his fault. Sam knows it, and so does Dean.

“Dean, don’t book me. Please,” Sam breathes out, leaning forwards and resting his chin on the side of the front seat. “I won’t make it in jail. I need my fix, and there’s no way in hell I’m gonna find a stable source in there.” 

“So what, I should just leave you out on the streets to rot?” Dean scoffs. 

“You know the system doesn’t give two shits about guys like me. It’s only gonna kill me faster.”

Dean bites down on his lip, hard, and then makes a sharp turn.

“That’s not the way to the police station,” Sam says with a hint of childlike excitement in his voice. Dean hates hearing it, ‘cause it just makes him feel worse, and yet he couldn’t take the pleading either. “Where are we going?” 

“My place,” Dean grits out. He always had a major blind spot when it came to Sam. No amount of time that passed or drugs that rush through Sam’s system could change that.

Dean unlocks the handcuffs and shoves them into his pocket before leading the way up to his apartment. Sam rubs his wrists as he follows, the red angry lines of the bracelets looping around them. 

“It’s a nice place,” Sam comments very politely, as if he’ve been invited over for a cuppa tea with some senile grandma who has crocheted stuff and porcelain kittens everywhere. Dean’s willing to admit, his place ain’t much to look at. Empty, dusty, and unwashed dishes are busy having a party in the sink. Maybe he should’ve gotten a pet. Like a cat. Or a dog. Or a pet dumb little brother who needs to be kept on a short leash, apparently.

Dean pats Sam down, which earns him an incredulous look from Sam and an array of finds — a bottle of pills, a pack of cigarettes, a thin wad of cash and a couple of condoms. Well, at least he’s being safe about his whoring ways. If anything about this could be considered safe.

“You have anything else on you?” Dean asks, and Sam shakes his head with an innocent expressions in his eyes.

“Think I’d be blowing this guy if I had any more coke?” Sam scrunches up his nose, and the nonchalant way he’s talking about makes Dean really uneasy. Dean gives him a long look before letting him go. 

“Hit the shower. You stink,” Dean pushes Sam in the back in the general shower’s direction and wipes his forehead. Fuck.

As soon as the door of the bathroom closes, Dean sinks into a chair and looks over at the pills at the table. Ecstasy. He picks the bottle up, grips it in his hands and curls up in the chair. Sam was always someone pure. Someone good, and, no matter how bad or dirty Dean’s own life got, Sam remained a shining beacon of one thing he didn’t Majorly Fuck Up. Turns out that even that crashed and burned.

Isn’t like Dean to roll over and give up, though. He’s gonna help Sam somehow. Don’t matter if he has to drag him to the rehab kicking and screaming, he isn’t about to leave his brother to die from a bad high in a ditch. Saw way too many worst case scenarios to allow Sam to become one of them. 

The clock ticks as Dean taps his foot against the floor, waiting.

The firm decision to save Sam makes Dean feel better for a fleeting second before the realisation that Sam’s taking an awful long time in the bathroom hits him. Sure, Sam used to always primp himself like a damn chick, and washing his long-ass hair obviously takes a while, but no way even Sam could take that long.

Dean gives the bathroom’s door a tentative knock. Nothing, just the sound of the water rushing down the drain. He knocks again, louder.

“Sam?”

Silence.

Maybe he passed out. Shit, Dean shouldn’t have left him alone. He raises his leg, kicks underneath the lock roughly, and the door swings open.

Sam’s out of the shower. He’s standing on his knees with a one tightly clutched in his fingers in front of the bathroom sink, two white lines crossing it. Sam’s hair and body are dripping wet, water droplets sliding down his bare skin. He’s only wearing his threadbare jeans that loosely hang on his hips, as if they’re about to fall off.

“Dean!” he looks up in some kind of an affront, as Dean just walked in on him changing on purpose or something. 

“You said— fuck, Sam. You can’t do this shit anymore. It’s gonna kill you.” 

“Yeah, it’s cut with some real nasty stuff,” Sam admits, sniffling. “Been savin’ it for a rainy day.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says, unimpressed, and leans in, grabbing Sam by the arm roughly. “Stand up. I’m cutting you off.”

“Dean, please,” Sam starts once again, whipping around to face Dean. “I need it. Bad.” It fucking reminds Dean of how Sam used to plead for a second helping of ice-cream. Dean always caved in back then. Sam reaches out, grasps Dean’s face with his free hand — Dean’s still gripping the other one tightly — and leans in close, his eyes wide. “Just one hit. Please. I’m seeing things and only— only drugs can help it go away. I’ll do whatever you say after, but just let me have this— Dean, Dean, Dean, please...”

Sam blinks rapidly, and Dean’s pretty sure he hates the part of his brain that allows his mouth to spit out, “Fine.” Sam’s face lights up with joy, and he drops back on his knees. Dean would rather not watch, but he feels frozen in place. He leans against the bathroom’s white wall and helplessly watches as Sam leans in and snorts the white powder, letting out a satisfied moan right afterwards.

Shit seems pretty bleak, and Dean feels an overwhelming desire to get drunk right this very minute, because while that might not help matters, it at least will make reality more bearable. Sam looks up at him, a smudge of white powder under his nose, his eyes shiny, and Dean just can’t take this anymore. He slides down the wall, pulling in shaky breaths. Felt like no air was reaching his lungs. It wasn’t his fucking first rodeo. Wasn’t like he never met an addict before. But Dean never cared for a single one of them, not like he cared for Sam.

Dean never could tell Sammy ‘no’. Then again, he never asked for anything like that before.

Sam crawls to Dean and cradles his face in his fingers, shushing. He leans in, pressing small butterfly kisses at Dean’s eyelid, goes lower and pecks his cheek. Theoretically, it’s all innocent, but Sam manages to make it ridiculously sexually charged. Dean swallows thickly, before pushing Sam aside and standing up.

He has no fucking idea what to do, and that’s the most scary thing about all this.

Dean used to be able to fix it all, every single scrape on Sam’s knee, the middle school bullies or an unfairly grading teacher, until one day he couldn’t.

The world is so much bigger than he ever wanted it to be.

Dean doesn’t really notice when and how he made it back to the rickety chair, but, apparently, he did. Sam follows, staring at Dean intently. His pupils are blown so wide that his eyes go black, like he has pieces of coals jammed in his eye sockets. He’s wearing a grin that makes Dean want to punch him in his smug face. Maybe he should. But he feels so tired, way too tired to pick a fight with Sam.

“I know what’ll make you feel better,” Sam whispers, leaning in and picking the pills up. “Have some E on me.” He laughs, as if he just told a hilarious joke, and Dean shudders. 

“I’m a cop,” he says pointlessly. Ever since he’s arrested Sam, he’s barely made any decisions a good cop should’ve made in his situation.

“What your bosses don’t know can’t hurt ‘em, right? Besides, you smoked weed back in high school, and E isn’t much worse than that. It’ll help you relax,” Sam breathes out, and all of a sudden he’s in Dean’s personal space again, pressing him against the chair’s back. He opens the pill bottle and picks one of them out. “Open wide.”

Dean wants to argue, but, once again, gives in to Sam instead. That’s shaping out to be the theme of the evening. Then again, it can’t really get much worse, huh? He opens his mouth, and Sam places a pill in his mouth with two fingers. Dean swallows.

“I’m not feeling anything,” he states dumbly, which prompts another laugh from Sam.

“Of course not. Give it a minute,” Sam grins, settling down on Dean’s lap, his arms wrapped around Dean’s neck. “Ah, I’d give anything to get that first-time high again.”

Dean swallows again, feeling his throat tighten slightly. 

“It’s like flying. Only better,” Sam murmurs, running his hand through Dean’s hair. “Okay. Maybe not the best metaphor when it comes to you. But it feels real good.” 

He leans in, nips at Dean’s neck skin in a decidedly non-brotherly way, and all Dean’s capable of doing is tilting his head and closing his eyes. He tells himself that’s just ‘cause of the drug in his system. A sweet small lie to hold onto. 

Sam slides his hands up Dean’s thighs and squeezes tightly before spreading them apart. 

“Thanks for not throwing me in a cell, officer,” Sam says with a smirk crossing his lips. “I’m eternally grateful.”

Dean cocks his eyebrow as Sam sinks lower on his knees wearing a smile that’s made of pure sin. 

“I want to pay you back,” Sam purrs, “and I have something in mind just for that.” 

If Dean was a better man, he’d push Sam away.

He’s not a better man. He’s barely a good man, what’s with the eager way his fingers find Sam’s hair. He grew it out ever since Dean saw him last, probably all the better to have a grip on. Dean laughs, his whole frame shaking with the breathy chuckling noises, and he’s not sure whether it’s the drugs or he had finally reached a full-blown hysteria.

“Is that your gun or are you so happy to see me?” Sam breathes out and mouths at the bulge in Dean’s jeans. Dean grips his hair tighter as Sam reaches out and pulls the zipper down, the motion torturously slow. 

Dean should’ve been panicking by now. Or, at the very least, asking himself ‘what the everloving fuck?’. When he went out with the department’s guys for drinks, a couple of them made no secret of the fact that they got down and dirty with the hotter ones they’ve arrested. Dean mentally scoffed at that. He had some damn moral integrity. Rules he lived by. No cash for ass, all that.

He guesses that all his moral integrity went outta the window by now. Of all the whores, he had to pick this one. His brother.

Dean ain’t going back from something like that.

Meanwhile, Sam loses no time poking Dean so he’d shift his hips up and tugging the jeans and underwear down. He leans in and swipes his tongue along the tip of Dean’s cock, like he was tentatively tasting a new dish. Dean swallows, looking down. Sam’s eyelashes are fluttering, one of his hands fidgeting with the torn-up hole in his jeans. As if he’s fucking shy. As if he didn’t spend last couple of years opening his mouth and spreading his legs for anyone who’d throw a twenty at him, or some crack to tide him by.

Dean closes his eyes. There’s flashes in the usual darkness, and he feels so fucking aware of every damn thing — his fingers tangled in Sam’s hair, the wetness of Sam’s mouth on him, the quiet creaking noise the chair makes every time he moves. 

And Dean fucking loves it all, loves how he’s way too blissed-out to care. Letting the reigns go feels fantastic. Who cares? Maybe he’s gonna get killed by a speeding truck tomorrow. Might as well do what makes him happy, right?

Sam swirls his tongue around the tip and dips into the slit. He brings his hand up and wraps it around the shaft, giving it a couple of firm strokes. Dean grunts, throwing his head back, which Sam obviously takes as an invitation to do more. Whatever gag reflex he had, it’s all good and gone, and he swallows Dean whole, a feat many a hook-up struggled to achieve. Dean’s fingers curl in his heavy boots as Sam eagerly sucks. Sam’s lips are in a perfect ‘o’ and his cheeks are flushed bright pink, and, fuck, he’s so pretty. 

That’s easily the best blowjob Dean’s ever had. He’d say that Sam sucks dick like a pro, but, well, Sam was a pro. That didn’t seem to worry his clouded judgement too much anymore anyway, not with the way Sam moans and hums around his cock, sending jolts of pleasure down Dean’s whole body. Dean’s free hand clutched the edge of the chair tightly and his legs tremble as he drives the heels of his boots into the wooden floor. 

“Fuck— I’m close—,” Dean pants out, words coming out all breathless and aborted. Sam pulls away with a wet pop and smirks at Dean’s desperate aroused look thrown his way. 

“Not done with you yet, officer,” Sam murmurs in a low drawl, which makes Dean’s head spin so much more. Sam rises to his feet and kicks his own jeans off, revealing that he went commando. Sam swings a leg over Dean, straddling his lap and slides his hands down Dean’s shirt’s front slowly. Sam hesitates when his hands hit the jagged bump of the shirt’s pocket. He reaches with his long fingers and fishes out the pair of handcuffs Dean used on him not an hour earlier.

“Ever wore those during?” Sam waves the handcuffs in air, the chair dangling hooked on his fingers. “Really makes it all so much more intense. You can see, but can’t touch.”

Dean shakes his head. 

“First time for everything, huh?” Sam snakes around him, pulls Dean’s limp hands together and chains him to the curved back of the chair. Sam quickly returns and presses in close, wrapping his hand around Dean’s chin.

Dean lets out a whine, tugging on the restraints. The cold bracelets dig into his wrists while Sam’s hot fingers envelop his face, and it's all too much. He looks up at Sam who’s wearing a smug smile. There’s splashes of colours dribbling down on the world around him, but he can see Sam’s face clear as the day. 

Sam fingers himself quickly and routinely — he doesn’t need much, apparently, all ready to go. He lowers himself on Dean’s cock slowly, grunting as he goes alongside with Dean’s own quiet noises. Damn, Dean’s never been with a guy before, and he probably won’t ever again — ain’t all guys he’s so fucked up over, just Sam, just his brother, simple sheer luck — but he can definitely see the appeal right now. Sam’s the furthest thing from a virgin and yet he’s still tight around his cock.

“Kiss me,” Dean pleads, and it’s ridiculous, really — he’s fucking horny as hell and chained to a chair and all he asks for is a damn kiss. Like he’s some kind of a Disney princess. And yet, he still asks for it. “C’mon.”

“You’re so cute when you beg,” Sam teases and drags his thumb along Dean’s lower lip slowly. “Maybe I should make you wait, just so I can hear you beg some more. ’S not too often I’m on this side of pleading for it. And... well, it’s you. Never thought I’d hear you beg for anything, Dean.”

Dean grows more and more frustrated as Sam speaks, and he dives in. His arms are sharply tugged at the shoulders, and the chair creaks loudly under the strength of his efforts. He manages to sloppily graze Sam’s lips before Sam jerks away.

“Huh. Typical Dean. Can’t have something, just take it by force, huh?” Sam laughs before trailing his hand into Dean’s hair and squeezing so sharply the pain makes tears well in the corners of Dean’s eyes. Sam tilts Dean’s head back and slams his lips against Dean’s. The kiss is all teeth and wet and it makes his lips sting. Sam licks into his mouth, and he eagerly answers in kind. Sam sucks his lower lip in and bites down. 

It hurts, but it hurts so good. Sam somehow knows exactly what Dean wants and what he needs, and Dean can’t help but let a pang of jealousy pierce him through as he thinks whether it’s just him or whether Sam knows this when it comes to everyone and anyone.

“Fuck, Dean. I wish you could see yourself now. You’re gorgeous,” Sam breathes. Dean kind of melts at the praise. He’s high as a kite by how. He’s not sure whether he got fucked up that strongly by a mere pill of ecstasy, or did Sam actually slip him something else. He’s so not sure whether or not this whole thing’s even real. Whether Sam’s real. Dean can’t even wrap his arms around him to check. “Always wanted you, but I never thought it’d happen.”

“That makes two of us,” Dean throws his head back as Sam rolls his hips, the motion practiced and precise. Sam’s hands rests on his shoulders, squeezing firmly. 

A droplet of sweat crosses Dean’s forehead slowly.

Sam’s whole body jerks as he bounces back and forth. 

“Fuck, Sam. Yea-a-ah, right there.”

Dean’s breath hitches as Sam leans in and kisses him again, this time so much more softly. 

The slow swipe of Sam’s tongue around his mouth paired with relentless hip movement sets him over the edge. Dean shakes and arches against the restraining metal and wood, pressing close to Sam. Dean feels Sam’s body warm even through the fabric of his shirt. 

Dean barely registers through the haze of his own orgasm how Sam trails a hand down to jerk himself up to completion. He sure as fuck takes his time admiring Sam’s head thrown back as he comes with a shuddering moan. He immediately grows limp afterwards, buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck and wraps his arms around Dean’s torso. Sam stays like this for a couple seconds more before getting up slowly. He undoes the cuffs and drops them on the floor with a loud clang. Dean immediately reaches out for his wrist, pulling him close. 

“Hey. We can fix this. Just... stay here, man,” he says in a desperate voice, and Sam gives him a sad smile, like a broke parent smiling at their child who asks for a birthday present they just can’t afford. 

“Yeah, Dean. We’ll see, ‘kay?” 

“This better mean ‘yes’, you asshole,” Dean scoffs, standing up as well. He pulls his pants back up and straightens his shirt out. “Did I or did I not bring you home? You could be in the slammer right now.”

“And you wouldn’t have had the best orgasm of your life —”

“You’re real fucking humble, I see.”

“Come on, you know it’s true.” 

Dean plans on another smart-ass remark, but instead sways on his feet, suddenly feeling like all his lifepower was drained from him. 

“Whoa, Dean!” Sam catches him midway and strains with the support of holding him up. “Let’s go to sleep, yeah? It’s your first trip, and you need to sleep it the hell off.”

Dean nods and allows Sam to lead him into the bedroom. He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, faintly feeling fingers running through his hair until there’s nothing but black colour.

***

Sam knows he can’t stay. That would mean he’d put a bull’s eye on Dean’s back. Everyone he gets close to die. Some in fires, some by guns, some get mauled by unknown beasts. 

Sam doesn’t know how to explain this. Doesn’t know how to explain the fact that he saw Jess burn in that fire on the ceiling for a whole week before it happened. He wasn’t using back then, and even if he was, it wouldn’t explain the whole prophetic angle away.

Ruby died in his arms. From an overdose, or so they said. Sam could’ve sworn the black smoke oozing out of her smirking mouth wasn’t a hallucination. 

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. If he’s some kind of prophet. Or a witch. Or, hell, Anti-Messiah himself. Or if he’s just insane.

He probably is. Who fucks their own brother? That was twisted and sick, but Dean didn’t seem to mind too much, and Sam… he just wanted to have this, at least, if he couldn’t have anything else. A normal kind of life. 

All Sam knows is that he can’t stop. He needs to stay on the run and stay drugged up. This way, he doesn’t have dreams of people dying every night, isn’t haunted by the milky whites of their eyes and their unnaturally twisted necks. 

Sam leaves around sunrise. The sky’s a faint smeared yellow. 

He walks the block slowly and puts his practiced sultry smile on for the short-haired middle-aged man who honks at him. The man looks up at Sam with a raised eyebrow, and his eyes catch the light.

“Lookin’ for a good time?” Sam drawls, leaning on the car’s side. 

“Thinking I already found it. Hop in,” the man smiles widely, baring his white teeth, and Sam opens the door to the car. 

***  
Dean wakes up with an overwhelming dryness in his mouth. He feels so hungover, as if he’s been drinking a whole month.

The bed’s empty, as he should’ve expected. There are no miracles in this world. And even if they are, Dean had never known any to happen for him.

He doesn’t go searching for Sam, ‘cause he knows it’s no use. 

He does call in sick to work.

Fuck, Dean never even told Sam he loved him. That’s the most bullshit, Lifetime thought ever, and yet it makes him feel like something’s clawing on his insides. Dean didn’t really tell him anything that mattered.

An hour passes. Two. 

A ring at the door pierces the silence, and Dean scrambles at his feet hastily, opens the door with hope springing in his chest. 

It’s not Sam. 

“Charlie?” 

“They... told me you were sick. I brought you some soup,” Charlie says in slight confusion before frowning. “You’re just hangover, aren’t you? Sheesh, Dean, getting drunk on a work night? Without me?”

Dean swallows thickly before his face crumbles, and he wraps his arms around Charlie as if she’s his last hope in this whole goddamn world. 

Charlie freezes for a second before hugging back tightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/98383.html?thread=38133327#t38133327) SPN Kink Meme prompt (although I deviated from it six ways to Sunday). Thanks to the prompter who allowed me tons of liberties with their prompt and to my lovely beta boyfrienddean!


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